Not In Blood, But In Bond
by MarblePeace
Summary: Watson gets shot, and Holmes has to care for him... And yes, this is SLASH. 2009 Guy Ritchie Movie versions.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey guys. This was my very first fanfic, so please be gentle with me~ I'm still learning!**

**These are the 2009 Guy Ritchie movie versions, with a little reference to 'A Study In Scarlet' by ACD.**

_Not In Blood, But In Bond_

As Dr. John Watson steps out the door of his practice, he is welcomed by a strong gust of cold wind, making him stumble. The doctor curses the draft and locks the door behind him and walks out onto the sidewalk. As he limps along, he notices how dead the town is. It must be later than he thought. He checks his watch:

11:15 PM.

'Ah, I've been here WAY overtime' Watson thought as another cold draft threatens to knock him over. He tightens his grip on his cane and lets out an agitated groan. A storm was clearly brewing; the air was moist and smelled of rain.

Watson quickens his pace, determined to reach Baker Street before it begins to rain. Rain is the last things he feels like dealing with. It's late and he is absolutely exhausted.

As he works his way home, his mind is suddenly filled with thoughts of Mary. He would be getting married soon... To the beautiful and kind Ms. Morstan.

Watson's mind jumps ahead to what it would be like after they married. A big new house, children...

Watson slows down a bit thinking of he and Mary having children. He comes to a full stop.

Children.

Having children would make them a full fledged happy family. That is what he always wanted, right? To have a beautiful, loving wife and precious, innocent prodigies.

John flinches as a wave of doubt flies through his body. That is what he has always wished for...

Why is he feeling so troubled?

Watson shakes his head and tries to ignore it, and continues his journey back home.

Holmes sits in his armchair by the fire, plucking his violin in a daze. The detective's chocolate brown eyes are set on the fire, deeply intrigued in his playing.

Clink. Clank. Clonk.

Holmes winces and his playing becomes louder, rousing a loud "humf" from Gladstone, who was sitting in the corner of the room. Gladstone was growing impatient with Holmes' violin. The detective has been playing it for two hours and the poor dog was getting tired of his 'music'.

So he miraculously gathers enough courage to do something about it.

"Woof" Gladstone attempts.

Holmes didn't hear him. He did not flinch, did not do anything. Gladstone growls to himself.

"WOOOWWFF" Gladstone howls.

This time Holmes abruptly stops playing and drops his violin down, clearly aggravated.

"Gladstone," he exclaims, "must you interrupt me!"

Holmes stands and glares at Gladstone, who is looking back at him with a most satisfied expression.

Holmes sighs.

'Why do we even have him?' Holmes thought, his eye twitching a bit. As he stands there, his eyes catch the fire again, and he is back thinking. Then suddenly he shivers. Watson. Watson isn't here.

And it's late...too late.

Holmes walks over to the window and looks out. The street is completely quiescent.

'Hm...surely Watson is alright' he thought as he goes back to the fire. He sits himself in his chair and sighs, realizing that once again, he cannot get Watson out of his mind.

Holmes is always thinking about Watson and it annoyed him.

'I shouldn't be doing this... Why? Why is he always on my mind? A better question...why do I feel happy and warm, every time I see him or think of him?'

Holmes taps his foot out of impatience of not being able to get Watson out of his high-functioning mind.

Watson...and Mary. Holmes groans internally when he thinks of Mary. Although, as much as he did not like Mary, he understood why she wanted John. What woman wouldn't want him?

John Watson is a tall, well-built man with a steady reputation. An ex-army doctor. You do not find many of those. He has a very kind and patient manner, quite a gentleman. He dresses nicely and neatly and is very well organized...

'John is a beautiful creature' Holmes thinks to himself and fidgets, getting aggravated again.

Watson is getting married soon, and Holmes will be left alone, with no one to take care of him anymore...

What will he do without Watson? He could always visit Watson...that is the only thing he could do to keep him from becoming completely lost.

Holmes sighs and shakes his head. It isn't enough. He doesn't want to let Watson go...

John's trip back home is taking a longer time than usual, seeing that there are no cabs roaming the roads of his route back home. Watson looks over and reads the street sign:

'BRIXTON ROAD'

He is closer to home. Suddenly he stops dead.

Brixton Road! This is where he and Holmes' first case together had been.

The house in which the crime had taken place looks very old, it is surely empty. The walls are taken over by greedy ferns and ivy, the trail of greenery almost completely covering the windows. The door of the building looks weak and weathered, a bit of ivy surrounding it, too.

Memories of "A Study in Scarlet" flood over him and he grins. He remembers the panic-stricken face of the poisoned victim and the large pool of sticky blood in which the victim was laying.

He shudders as he remembers the scarlet characters on the wall.

'RACHE'

Watson just stands there looking at the building, lost in thought. Thinking of he and Holmes' first case soon sends his mind onto one subject itself.

Sherlock Holmes.

That lunatic. Sherlock Holmes was by far the oddest man Watson has ever met; and probably will ever meet. Along with the strangest, he is also the most amazing man Watson has ever met. And most certainly the most annoying. How he has put up with the detective's bold mood swings, his rambunctious violin playing, and his cocaine habits all these years astounded even himself.

Oh well. He has managed to put up with it, and he is very glad he has. Holmes has put the dearly missed exciting rush of action back into the doctor's life. And oh, how he thanks The Great Detective for that.

John certainly would have begun to go insane if he hadn't met Holmes. Life would be too boring. Too lifeless.

That was it.

Life would be too boring without Holmes. Is...is that why he has felt so much doubt with he and Mary's marriage?

Once he marries her, that would be goodbye to Holmes. And...goodbye to Holmes means...a dull life.

Suddenly the doctor feels a sharp pain on the left side of his head and all of his thoughts are interrupted and replaced by and overwhelming feeling of dizziness.

He falls to the ground and the city around him seems to grow a bit darker, and he sees the masculine figures of three men.

He then feels himself being carried off, and he shakes is head, widening his eyes to find out that he is in the very same house which he was standing in front of just a moment ago...


	2. Chapter 2

Watson places a hand on the left side of his head, which was now throbbing in pain. He takes another good look around him, confirming that he was now inside the house on Brixton Road, and that he was surrounded by three large men, all of them now beginning to head toward him. The doctor realizes he needs to take action, and quickly.

He jumps up suddenly, making the pain in his skull worsen, and reveals his hidden sword in his cane. He begins to slash it around.

"Back off!" he yells threateningly, glaring at all three of the men, who were now backing up slowly, their hands in the air.

'How ignorant they are', Watson thought, 'to not equip themselves with weapons when they attempt to mug someone.'

Then John is abruptly corrected as one of the men pull out a revolver, gracelessly fires it at Watson, and surprisingly lodges a bullet into the doctor's arm. John falls to the floor with an agonizing yell, clenching onto his right bicep, which was now leaking a waterfall of sticky blood.

Watson's energy and coordination begin to decrease rapidly, giving an advantage to the crooks, which they quickly took without hesitation.

The muggers were quickly upon John, two of them holding him down, the last one searching all of Watson's pockets. The man searching Watson seems to growl in frustration as he completes his search with no luck. There is nothing. No amount of money or any other valuables for them to take.

Giving a small nod to his comrades, he and the other two men release Watson and sprint out of the house.

Watson looks out the door after them, his vision a bit askew. He looks down at his injured arm, it is completely soaked in scarlet liquid. The injured man holds his head in his hands and lets out a quiet sob.

Then Watson inhales deeply and carefully takes off his jacket and wraps it around his painful bicep. He ties the jacket tight round his arm, making him take a sharp, painful intake of breath.

He somehow scrambles onto his feet, balance forgotten. He backs up into the wall behind him and sighs, he didn't realize how excruciating his pain was at the moment. Feeling unbearable dizzy, Watson attempts to take a few steps forward and miraculously succeeds, but his grace is all gone now, and he drunkenly makes his way to the doorway. The whole of the doctor's arm was throbbing now, and he felt very light-headed as he slowly made his way down the steps and onto the sidewalk.

Now outside, Watson gets a strong surge of weakness and falls down onto the cold London street.

His whole earth is turning black, and he lays there helplessly as he is sucked into unconsciousness.

Holmes keeps staring into the fire, impatience consuming him.

Where was Watson? He never stays out late, and when he does, he was at Mary's, and Watson would have told Holmes if he was going to Mary's.

It is 1:45 AM and Holmes is getting a bit worried now. And as bored as ever. He has played his violin for who knows how long now, he's yelled at the dog, and he's just been thinking.

Then the detective smiles and heads into his bedroom, grabs a neat morocco case from deep inside his drawer, and opens the case to look at the clean syringe inside.

"Empty," he growls, and then shoves the case back into the drawer.

Stepping back into the sitting-room, he plops himself down onto the tiger-skin rug, muttering aggressive nothings to himself.

He checks his pocket-watch: 1:55 AM.

It is two in the morning and Watson isn't here. Watson always tells when he is going to Mary's or doing anything else that should make him late. He has never been this late, either...

Full of worry and impatience, the detective decides to go out and search for his doctor. Hopefully nothing bad has happened.

Holmes grabs his coat and hat and sets out into the cold night-or, morning.

He takes a right and begins his journey to Watson's practice, rain beginning to slightly fall.

...

It has been thirty minutes and Holmes has made his way to Watson's practice, tracing the doctor's usual route back home.

The rain becomes heavier and louder, and...colder. The detective presses his coat closer to him, shivering. God, how he hopes his Boswell is alright. He wouldn't know what to do if Watson was hurt.

Holmes reaches Brixton Road and smirks. He could feel it...deep inside. Watson was around here. Somewhere.

...

10 minutes pass and the detective has had no luck, and is about to give up. No sign of Watson, no clues to help find him, and the rain was falling heavier than ever. He stops and looks down at the ground in despair, sighing deeply. He glances at his pocket-watch:

2:50 AM.

Holmes shakes his head and turns heel, when something catches his eye. Far down the road some more, he sees what looks like a large bundle of clothes.

Holmes' heart skips a beat as he is flooded with hope, and also fear. He sprints down the street towards the mass and, reaching it, lets out a loud sound of triumph when he determines that is indeed his Watson.

Holmes rushes over to Watson and sits down on his knees, looming over Watson, drops of rain running smoothly down his face and crashing onto John's chest down below. The detective's mouth parts in shock as he gets a good look at his doctor.

Watson looks defeated and painfully weak, his whole right arm was drenched in blood, and the doctor was not moving. Holmes bites back a choked sound of worry and he stares at Watson for a moment, catching sight of the doctor's sides gently rising and falling.

Relief almost knocking him over, Holmes examines Watson's blood-soaked arm, and notices the bullet lodged in his right bicep. Holmes bites his lip and sobs, it is very painful seeing his Boswell in this condition.

Holmes looks around helplessly and begins to shake Watson, trying to awake him. At least just enough so he can move his legs and somewhat walk. Holmes definitely cannot carry him.

He keeps shaking Watson with no luck and he grits his teeth in frustration. He needs to get Watson home, and fast. He decides to shout his name.

"Watson!" he shakes him violently, "Watson! Get up! Please! UP!"

Holmes grins wildly as John stirs a bit and opens one eye.

"Watson! Oh, thank God! Come, now, you need to get up!" Holmes exclaims, still shaking the doctor.

Watson jerks awake and groans, the unwelcome pain in his bicep reminding him of what had happened to him. He opens his eyes fully and starts violently as he sees Holmes' face right above his, grinning like a moron.

"H-Holmes?" Watson stammers.

Holmes seems to almost wail in joy, "Watson! You're alright!" Then the detective uncontrollably wraps his arms around his doctor and holds him tight.

"Erm...Holmes. I'm alright, trust me..." Watson gently pulls away and holds his arm in pain. "Take me home."

Holmes nods and helps Watson to his feet and guides him back home.


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes opens the door to 221 B and helps the exhausted Watson up the steps and through the door. They make their way up to the staircase and into the sitting-room and Holmes sits Watson gently down on the settee, huffing a small sigh of relief to finally be home.

He takes another good look at Watson; the poor lad looks so thwarted and haggard, seeing Watson in this condition is very new to Holmes.

Then it occurs to the detective that he probably needs to do something to make Watson more comfortable. He thinks about it...but gathers no idea of what to do. He has never had to take care of someone before. But he was willing to do anything for his Boswell.

"Erm...do you need anything?" Holmes decides to finally ask.

Watson looks to Holmes and scowls. Of course he needed something! A number of things! Bandages, water, a blanket, and this bloody bullet removed!

The doctor goes to blurt his thoughts out in anger but then settles himself.

Holmes isn't a doctor; never once has he had to take care of someone else and this was new to him.

Watson relaxes and scolds himself for being so snappy.

"Something to drink would be grand, or even better, having this bullet removed."

Holmes shakes his head quickly. Of course! Why hadn't he thought of that?

He goes and makes Watson a glass of water and hands it to him. Watson smiles and nods his thanks.

As Holmes heads to the bathroom to get the First Aid Kit, Gladstone plops himself down in front of Watson and licks his hand. Watson smiles and chuckles, reaching down to pet the bulldog.

"Good boy."

Gladstone wiggles his rump in happiness and Watson withdraws his hand and lays back...

Holmes returns to the settee with the Aid Kit to find the doctor soundly asleep.

He decides that this is the best time to extract the bullet from Watson's bicep and bandage him up, so he wouldn't feel any discomfort. He begins to doctor his slumbering patient...

Watson awakes on the settee to find a blanket around him and a pillow beneath his sore head. He smirks and sits up, making him notice that he was shirtless, and he had a bandage wrapped firmly around his bicep. He looks at it, impressed with two things.

One, the bandage was applied perfectly, and

Two, how Holmes managed to remove his shirt and bandage him without waking him.

The doctor just dismisses it and takes a good look around the room.

Looking behind him at the window, he could see that it was still raining, and after a minute he could hear thunder. How lovely.

Watson turns his head back around and spots Gladstone in the corner of the room burying his face deep into the wall. The bulldog has always been afraid of thunder.

Watson shifts and and plants his feet firmly on the floor, stiffens his legs, and slowly stands. Not feeling any serious pain besides his sore arm and head, he gives himself a big stretch, a few limbs popping with relief to be moving. Feeling much better he makes his way to Gladstone's corner and scoops up the [quite heavy] dog and holds him close to his chest.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Gladstone, that thunder will not hurt you?"

Gladstone just hides his face into Watson's neck, digging his cold wet nose into his skin, making the doctor jump.

"No." Watson says as he gently pushes the dog's face away from his neck.

Gladstone hmphs with annoyance and wiggles, wanting down. Watson releases him and walks around, looking for his shirt, just to find it back on the settee, only now neatly folded and cleaned.

Surely Holmes didn't clean his laundry for him? ...where was Holmes?

John looks around the sitting-room, not spotting Holmes. He puts his shirt on and quietly makes his way to the detective's bedroom and gently pushes the door open.

The doctor's eyebrows rise as he sees Holmes, still dressed save his shirt, which was thrown carelessly onto the floor, sprawled out in every way on his bed, the sheets nearly kicked completely off the bed.

Watson shakes his head and smiles. Sherlock Holmes doesn't even sleep normally.

He goes to leave when Holmes stirs a bit and turns his head, still asleep, but facing Watson.

Watson can't help but stare at him. Holmes has never looks so...peaceful. Hell... Watson keeps staring and sighs. Holmes looks...adorable.

Turning, he leaves, closing the door a bit too hard out of anger for thinking that his roommate looked "adorable".

He closed the door too hard indeed, for once it was closed he could hear a thump on the floor and Holmes exclaim sleepily, "WHO WAS THAT?"

Alarmed and not wanting to be caught, Watson hurries back into the sitting-room and plops down onto the settee.

About 5 minutes later, Holmes walks into the sitting-room fully dressed, still looking a bit tired. He sits himself beside Watson and rubs his face sleepily.

"I must have been dreaming. I heard this bang, and...well...not important! How are you feeling?"

Watson shifts nervously, "Feeling great. You wrapped me up quite nicely."

A smile tugs at Holmes' lips but then he returns serious. "It was nothing..."

The two sit quietly for a few minutes, a somewhat awkward sense hanging in the air. Holmes decides to break it.

"You began to bleed heavily once I removed the bullet," he pointed out, "your bandage is bearing more blood than it needs to be."

Watson glances at his bandaged arm and nods in agreement. The bandage has a large dark red spot and it needs to be changed in order to avoid infection.

Before he can say anything, Holmes heads into the bathroom and returns with the Aid Kit. Watson removes his shirt and goes to open the box.

"Allow me." the detective orders as he begins to remove everything he needs from the Kit. Watson flinches as Holmes' long cold fingers carefully make their way around his arm, removing the tainted bandage. As he works on cutting off a new piece of gauze, Watson can't help but notice how Holmes' expression was much darker than usual; the darkest Watson has ever experienced. He can't help but ask why.

"What's wrong?" Watson asks in a gentle voice, and that seemed to change something in the detective.

Holmes' eyes seem to flood with tears and he wipes his eyes, trying to remove them, making his fingers wet. "Nothing is wrong."

"Holmes, don't lie to me." Watson says firmly, but feeling overwhelmed with sympathy for him. He has never seen Holmes this upset before.

Holmes sniffs and shifts, clearly uncomfortable.

"Holmes, you know it is okay to show your emotions and share them with others. Why do you always hide them?" Watson tries to look into the detective's eyes.

"You don't want to listen to my emotions, Watson" Holmes states, eyes still clouded as he cuts off a piece of gauze. As he begins to wrap it around Watson't arm, the doctor pulls away, patience wearing short.

"Yes, Holmes, I do! Something is clearly troubling you, and I wish to know what it is."

Holmes looks up into Watson's eyes, defeated. "I just can't stand to see you like this, Watson. I know you are hurting, and that hurts me."

Watson stares back a Holmes, lost for an answer.

Holmes continues to wrap the bandage around Watson's bicep, "You have been my companion and greatest, well only friend, for years. But after 4 years of our companionship, I began to develop strong emotion towards you. I decided to keep them secret. I was afraid you would leave me if I told you. We are like brothers, Watson, but to me...you mean more to me than that." A single tear travels down Holmes' cheek as he grabs the roll of medical tape.

Watson holds his gaze on Holmes, mouth agape, completely lost for words. Apart from his expanding shock, the doctor also feels relief; as if a giant puzzle piece has just been put together.

He can't help but realize that this is what he wants. Now that Holmes has pointed this out, it made Watson discover that he wants the detective as much as the detective wants him.

But...why? He belongs with Mary...right?

Holmes finishes doctoring Watson and quickly packs the Kit, turns to leave, when Watson grasps the detective's wrist.

"Stay" Watson says, his face unreadable.

Confused, Holmes stays put, facing Watson. "Why on God's green earth do you want me to stay?"

"Because I don't want you to leave."

Holmes blinks, he could have thought of that. "But why?"

Suddenly Holmes feels soft, hot lips on his own, warming his whole body. The detective's eyes close and he pushes forward, deepening the kiss, and he feels Watson's arms around him, pulling him closer to his bare torso, into an intimate embrace. Holmes cocks his head, his tongue begging for entrance to Watson's mouth. Watson reciprocates the action and their tongues meet, sending wild shivers down their backs.

They continue it seems like forever, each slurping the other's tongue, eager to taste each other.

After a few more moments, Holmes gently pulls away, breathless. He stares wide-eyed into Watson, who is staring back at him.

The two sit for a while, staring into each other, silence deafening them.

Suddenly Watson breaks into a giant fit of laughter, making the detective jump and stare at Watson as if he had lost his mind. Watson keeps laughing, making Holmes begin to crack up as well.

"Watson, w-what are you laughing about?"

A few more moments pass and Watson's laughter dies down and he wipes his eyes, leaning back into the settee. "Oh, Holmes... It's not you. I just feel so foolish."

Holmes' face darkens at Watson's words. "Oh...I understand." Holmes gets up to leave.

Watson jumps and pulls Holmes back down beside him, pulling him close as they lay back. "No, not in that way. I'm not embarrassed. I feel foolish because I have spent years looking for the right love for me without much success and my true love was standing right in front of me the whole time."

Holmes smiles a pure golden smile and reaches up for a kiss, which Watson returns. Holmes snuggles close, closing his eyes. "I love you."

Watson looks down at Holmes and runs his fingers through his velvety dark brown hair. "I love you too, Holmes."


	4. Epilogue

**Epilogue **

"_Watson places a hand on the left side of his head, which was now throbbing in pain. He takes another good look around him, confirming that he was now inside the house on Brixton Road, and that he was surrounded by three large men, all of them now beginning to head toward him. The doctor realizes he needs to take action, and quickly._

_He jumps up suddenly, making the pain in his skull worsen, and reveals his hidden sword in his cane. He begins to slash it around._

_"Back off!" he yells threateningly, glaring at all three of the men, who were now backing up slowly, their hands in the air._

_'How ignorant they are', Watson thought, 'to not equip themselves with weapons when they attempt to mug someone.'_

_Then John is abruptly corrected as one of the men pull out a revolver, gracelessly fires it at Watson, and surprisingly lodges a bullet into the doctor's arm. John falls to the floor with an agonizing yell, clenching onto his right bicep, which was now leaking a waterfall of sticky blood..._"

Watson jumps awake, gasping for breath, his eyes wide. He places a hand on his chest to feel his feral heartbeat and his eyes fly around his room, making sure he is really home. The doctor sits up in his bed and breathes, calming himself down.-

After the incident on the settee (which was three days ago), when Holmes was "doctoring" him, he and Holmes have been closer than ever; secret lovers. Said three days have been nothing but pure Heaven for the two. Mornings are spent sitting by the fire, holding each other, afternoons are nothing special, they steal a few kisses from one another. Come evening, the couple remains on the settee, kissing, playing, nipping.

Late at night, when they are ready to retire, they each go to their own bedrooms. They agreed that they were not ready to share a bed, so be it.

But as Holmes goes fast to sleep, dreaming wonderful, Watson has nightmares. He has been having these nightmares every night since the incident; just to remind him of that terrible experience on Brixton Road. The dream is the same each time, but it bothers him more and more... -

John's breathing finally returns back to normal and he leans back on his pillow, staring at the ceiling. Oh, how he was tired of having these dreams.

Watson lays there, trying to close his eyes, but he is too scared to go back to sleep. He doesn't want to have the nightmare again, he's scared that one night he will not wake up.

He lays there a bit more, but has to face the fact that he will not go back to sleep. So he gets up...walks out of his room...and steps into Holmes' room. With the gentle moonlight beaming through the window, Watson can see Holmes, in his dressing-gown, comfortable under the sheets (actually sleeping normally this time). Watson creeps more into the room and sits himself down on the floor. Now feeling a bit safer, he stares out the window, just thinking. He doesn't know if he is going to sit there all night, but he doesn't care, he just wants to sit there for now.

An hour passes, and Watson's eyes and head are falling, heavy with sleep.

A few more moments pass and Watson jerks awake, and sneezes. Pretty loudly.

On the bed beside him, Holmes jumps awake and sits up, examining his room. The detective jumps as his eyes fall on Watson, in the middle of his room, looking back at him, holding his nose.

"Excuse me" Watson dismisses his sneeze.

"...Watson. What are you doing in here?"

Watson shifts and picks at his fingernails. "Nothing...just go back to sleep."

Holmes stares hard at Watson, as if he were staring right into him. "What are you doing, why are you in here? Is something wrong? You look nervous..."

Watson stares at the floor, his face troubled.

Holmes sighs and pats the spot on the bed in front of him. "Come here."

John looks to Holmes in slight disbelief. But he goes and sits down in front of Holmes anyway.

Holmes takes hold of Watson's hand, stroking it with his thumb. "Now, tell me what is wrong."

Watson takes a shaky inhale and spills out all about his nightmares; how he has them every night, how they are the same each time, how he was scared to go back to sleep...

He finally finishes and breaks down, sobbing with tears spilling onto his lap. He wanted the dreams to go away so badly he couldn't take it anymore.

Holmes looks at his Boswell, overtaken with sympathy. Then he remembers something his mother used to do when he was upset.

He gently pulls Watson over to him, lays his head down comfortably on his chest, and covers the both of them up with the sheets. Holmes holds his doctor close and whispers into his ear,

"Baby mine, don't you cry,

Baby mine, dry your eyes.

Rest your head close to my heart,

Never to part,

Baby of mine."

Holmes begins to hum the tune of the lullaby and slowly rocks side to side, running his fingers through Watson's soft hair.

Watson holds onto his detective, his nerves settling and his eyes drying. After a few moments, his breathing softens and he closes his eyes...

Holmes shifts his head to look at Watson's face and chuckles. Watson is sound asleep. The detective sighs and kisses his Boswell's head. "I love you."

Watson awakes to find himself cradled in Holmes' arms and fresh morning sunlight streaming into the room. And for once in the last three nights, Watson has slept peacefully, without any nightmares to disturb him.


End file.
